UC-NRLF 


E7S 


, 


/.  "**• 


)  • 


' 

'V 

*  •  *  V\ "  ' 

• .  \      \"    • 


v ;  $» 


LIBRARY 


OF  THE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


OF 


aass 


UNIVERSITY 


POEMS 


OF 


GEORGE  CRAWFORD  WILSON 


UNIVERSITY 


COPYRIGHT,  1904 
All  Rights  Reserved 


I 


Printed  by  the  Stanley-Taylor  Co.,  S.  F. 


CONTENTS 


Biographical  Sketch     ......  I 

A  Personal  Letter  to  the  Family  from  an  Old  Friend  4 

His  Mother  's  His  Sweetheart,  by  Frank  Stanton      .  5 

The  Inky  Web  ......  9 

IN  WAR-TIME: 

At  Bordertown  in  '61  .  .  .        13 

The  Southern  Trooper  .  .  .46 

A  Personal  Reminiscence  of  Shiloh  .  .        55 

LIFE'S  FLEETING  SHOW: 

An  Idyl     .......        63 

Laddie       .          .          .          .          .          .          .65 

Love's  Tragedy  .          .          .          .          .67 

The  Magdalen's  Thanksgiving  Day          .          .        71 
Forgiveness          .          ,          .          .          .          -75 
The  Mote  and  the  Beam       ....        76 

The  Final  Gospel         .....        80 

My  Song  That  Is  Never  Sung         .          .          .83 

IN  LIGHTER  VEIN: 

The  Barn  ......        87 

Upon  Receiving  a  Birthday  Bag  from  a  Charity        89 


CONTENTS 


RANDOM  LINES: 

While  Talent  Through  the  Gateway  Crawls    .  93 

The  Fire  of  Passion  Fiercely  Glows          .          .  94 

The  Virtues  of  a  Friend  He  Saw    .          .          •  95 

Those  Well- Worn  Words  so  Wondrous  Dear  96 

What  Surgeon  with  His  Searching  Knife            .  97 

But  Let  the  Spark  of  Genius  Flash            .          .  98 

Oh  What  a  Laggard  Foot  hath  Time       .          .  99 

When  We  are  Dead,  what  Care  We  then          .  100 

And  when  I  Lie  upon  My  Bier.     .          .  101 

PORTRAITS: 

In  1901     .          .          .          .         Opposite  Title  Page 

At  the  Age  of  Fifteen             ....  7 
At  the  Age  of  Twenty-Six    .          .          .          -53 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  ] 

OF 

c/ 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

George  Crawford  Wilson  was  born  in  Indiana, 
January  7,  1837,  and  died  in  Monrovia,  Cali- 
fornia, April  26,  1902. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  entered  Asbury  University, 
which  is  now  known  as  De  Pauw  University,  in  Green- 
castle,  Indiana.  Five  years  later  he  completed  his  col- 
lege course  and  was  graduated  from  the  University  of 
Indiana  at  Bloomington  when  but  a  few  months  past 
his  twentieth  year.  He  then  began  the  study  of  law, 
and  in  a  comparatively  short  time  was  admitted  to  the 
bar.  When  in  1861  the  Civil  War  broke  out  and  threat- 
ened the  disunion  of  the  States,  George  Wilson  was 
among  the  first  to  answer  his  Country's  call  and  enlist 
in  defense  of  the  Union.  Although  he  had  enlisted  as 
a  private,  he  was  soon  given  a  commission,  serving  on 
the  staff  of  General  Buford,  and  was  at  the  front  in  two 
of  the  great  battles  of  the  war,  at  Fort  Donaldson  and 
on  the  hard-fought  field  of  Shiloh. 

After  the  close  of  the  war  he  still  gave  his  ener- 
gies to  the  service  of  his  country,  and  entered  political 
life,  his  grateful  fellow-citizens  electing  him  to  the  leg- 
islature of  Illinois.  After  serving  with  distinction  his 

1 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 


term  in  legislative  halls,  he  gave  up  political  life  to  en- 
gage in  business  and  became  a  successful  banker  in 
Illinois. 

During  the  whole  of  this  strenuous  and  exciting 
portion  of  his  life  he  found  time  to  cultivate  his  special 
fondness  for  literature;  and  on  removing  to  Chicago, 
he  retired  from  active  business  and  devoted  some  time 
to  literary  pursuits,  for  which  he  had  a  natural  inclina- 
tion and  special  qualifications. 

In  1897  he  became  a  resident  of  California,  where 
he  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  the  entire  community; 
indeed,  to  know  him  was  to  love  him;  he  was  a  splen- 
did type  of  American  gentleman;  a  brave  soldier,  mod- 
est and  unassuming  in  his  public  career,  a  thorough 
business  man,  yet  of  a  deeply  religious  nature  and 
possessed  of  many  sympathetic  and  affectionate  char- 
acteristics. He  never  married,  but  with  unswerving 
fidelity  and  tenderest  care  gave  the  last  ten  years  of 
his  life  to  close  companionship  with  his  dear  mother, 
who  passed  away  just  a  short  month  before  him,  at  the 
age  of  ninety-one  years.  In  his  daily  reading  of  the 
Bible  to  her,  they  together  had  prepared  for  the  Better 
Land. 


2 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 


He  died  very  suddenly  in  Monrovia  while  standing 
talking  to  a  friend.  His  death  was  a  severe  shock  to 
his  remaining  relatives  and  occasioned  much  sadness 
to  his  many  friends.  The  funeral  services  in  Monrovia, 
April  28,  1902,  were  of  a  peculiarly  affecting  character; 
two  poems  written  by  Mr.  Wilson,  "The  Final  Gospel" 
and  "The  Magdalen's  Thanksgiving,"  were  read  by  the 
officiating  clergyman,  and  in  the  purity  of  thought  and 
exaltation  of  life  in  the  lines  there  was  revealed  to  the 
sorrowing  listeners  a  view  of  the  manly,  unselfish  spirit 
of  George  Crawford  Wilson. 


A  PERSONAL  LETTER  TO  THE  FAMILY  FROM 

AN  OLD  FRIEND. 

"A  close  association  for  over  forty  years  with 
George  Crawford  Wilson  revealed  the  man;  and  the 
revelation  disclosed  a  character  eminent  for  intelligence, 
kindness  and  reliability.  He  was  greatly  good,  evinc- 
ing the  broadest  charity  for  his  fellow-men,  greeting  all 
men  respectfully,  and  possessing  the  respect  of  all. 
He  made  no  criticisms  and  received  none.  His  life  was 
one  of  love,  and  he  was  universally  beloved.  He  ever 
walked  in  peaceful  paths,  but  in  what  was  right  he  acted 
without  fear  and  without  reproach.  His  mental  vision 
was  clear,  his  judgment  sound,  and  his  counsels  in- 
valuable. He  was  a  gentleman  by  nature,  standing  on 
a  higher  plane  than  any  ever  reached  by  veneering 
studies  in  etiquette.  His  kindly  and  thoughtful  disposi- 
tion gave  surer  guidance  in  this  regard.  He  lived  much 
and  taught  us  much  in  his  allotted  span,  and  he  has  left 
us  the  most  valuable  of  bequests — a  shining  example 
of  right  living.  J.  D.  LONG." 


A  friend,  knowing  of  Mr.  Wilson's  devotion  to  his 
mother,  sent  him  these  lines,  and  they  were  found 
among  the  manuscripts  of  these  poems: 

HIS  MOTHER  'S   HIS  SWEETHEART. 

By   Frank   Stanton. 

His      mother 's     his     sweetheart  —  the     sweetest, 
the  best!" 
So   say  the  white  roses  he  brings  to  my 

breast; 

The  roses  that  bloom  when  life's  summers  depart; 
But  his  love  is  the  sweetest  rose  over  my  heart. 
The  love  that  hath  crowned  me — 
A  necklace  around  me, 
That  closer  to  God  and  to  Heaven  hath  bound  me! 

"His  mother 's  his  sweetheart."     Through  all  the  sad 

years 

His  love  is  the  rainbow  that  shines  through  my  tears; 
My  light  in  God's  darkness,  when  with  my  dim  eyes 
I  see  not  the  stars  in  the  storm  of  His  skies. 
When  I  bow  'neath  the  rod 
And  no  rose  decks  the  sod, 

His  love  lights  the  pathway  that  leads  me  to  God) 

5 


"His  mother  's  his  sweetheart."  Shine  bright  for  his  feet, 
O  lamps  on  life's  highway!  and  roses,  lean  sweet 
To  the  lips  of  my  darling!  and  God  grant  His  sun 
And  His  stars  to  my  dutiful,  beautiful  one! 

For  his  love — it  hath  crowned  me — 

A  necklace  around  me, 
And  closer  to  God  and  to  Heaven  hath  bound  me! 


AT   THE  AGE   OF   FIFTEEN 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


T 


he  inky  web  wherein  is  caught 

The  viewless  fly  of  human  thought. 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


AT  BORDERTOWN  IN  '61. 

A   Fragment. 

A  drum-call  roused  the  village  street, 
And  instantly  a  hundred  feet 
Went  hastening  tow'rd  that  martial  sound, 
With  manly  stride  and  youthful  bound; 
For  beardless  lads  and  bearded  men 
Alike  were  filled  with  ardor  then. 
A  ready  hand,  a  flag  unfurled — 
The  dearest  flag  in  all  the  world — 
Then  burst  from  lips  that  had  been  dumb 
With  waiting,  tense  and  wearisome, 
A  cheer  that  shook  the  vibrant  air 
As  if  a  thousand  men  were  there. 
Ere  long  there  came  a  hundred  more, 
And  some  who  had  been  youths  of  yore, 
Whose  whit'ning  hair  and  dimming  eyes 
Showed  youth  and  strength  were  memories: 
E'en  maids  and  mothers  ventured  near, 
Unbonneted  and  pale  with  fear, 
For  they  had  heard  the  rumor  dire 
That  chilled  like  ice,  yet  burned  like  fire. 
O!  ye  who  can  no  longer  hide 

13 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


Those  marks  which  age  has  dignified — 
How  well  ye  know  and  can  recall 
That  day  they  fired  on  Sumter's  wall! 
That  day  the  message  northward  Hashed 
To  tell  the  waiting  lines  had  clashed; 
The  Nation's  banner  had  been  spurned — 
Then  parley  ceased  and  powder  burned — 
And  Peace,  affrighted,  fled  afar 
Before  the  awful  frown  of  War! 

A  stalwart  form  stood  quickly  forth — 

A  citizen  of  noble  worth — 

Who,  wishing  silence,  waved  his  hand 

As  one  entitled  to  command. 

"My  friends" — he  said — and  then  his  tongue 

A  moment  to  his  palate  clung, 

Unpracticed  in  the  facile  ways 

Of  those  that  turn  the  fluent  phrase — 

"In  futile  speech  'twere  wrong  to  waste 

"The  time  we  owe  to  helpful  haste; 

"This  hour  is  eloquent — you  know 

"Your  country's  peril — who  will  go?" 

Ah!  who  could  know  the  swell  of  soul 

They  felt  who  signed  that  glory-roll, 

14 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


Save  one  whose  name  was  written  there 
His  dividend  of  death  to  share? 
So  thought  young  Merwin,  while  his  blood 
Rushed  hotly  like  a  loosened  flood 
And  drove  like  lightning  through  his  brain 
A  panorama — swift  and  plain. 
A  picture  he  could  now  recall, 
Which  hung  upon  the  household  wall, 
Of  battle  fought  for  Freedom's  cause 
That  won  th'  admiring  world's  applause. 
'Twas  there  his  father's  grandsire  bled 
And  on  his  name  a  lustre  shed 
That  shone  through  all  the  distant  haze 
Of  Revolutionary  days. 
To  him  that  scene  from  history 
Foretold  what  was  again  to  be. 
He  saw  the  cannon  flashing  red 
Beneath  the  smoke  that  rose  o'erhead; 
He  saw  the  wounded  upward  drag 
Themselves  once  more  to  cheer  the  flag — 
While,  lying  close,  the  bleeding  corse 
Was  trampled  by  the  flying  horse. 
Prophetic  fancy  now  unrolled 
A  wider  picture  than  the  old, 

15 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


And  through  the  glass  of  magic  power 

She  holds  to  Youth  at  such  an  hour, 

He  saw  himself,  with  streaming  hair 

And  fire-lit  eye  and  bosom  bare, 

All  dauntless  face  a  hostile  horde — 

Strike  down  its  leader  with  his  sword, 

And  vanquish  him  in  single  fight, 

By  dint  of  such  God-given  sleight 

As  David's,  when  his  wondrous  throw 

For  Israel  laid  Goliath  low. 

Then  quivering  with  a  double  thrill — 

A  flush  of  heat — a  sense  of  chill — 

He  saw  himself  again  appear 

With  bearded  lip  and  brow  severe, 

A  fine-clad  hero  of  renown 

Returning  to  his  native  town! 

So  fleets  the  action  of  a  dream 

When  moments  as  long  years  may  seem. 

To  see  his  duty  and  decide, 

No  time  so  short  it  could  divide; 

He  sprang,  all  fervid,  and  enrolled 

His  name  in  letters  clear  and  gold, 

High  on  the  bright,  heroic  page, 

With  those  of  neighbors  twice  his  age; 

16 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


For  he  was  in  his  callow  span — 
No  more  a  lad  nor  quite  a  man. 
At  other  times  'twere  meet  for  jest 
To  note  the  bulging  of  his  chest, 
His  pose  erect  and  rigid  spine, 
The  downward  curving  of  the  line 
That  marked  the  crescent  of  his  mouth 
And  boded  ill  for  all  the  South! 
Elated  and  a  trifle  vain, 
He  turned  to  read  his  name  again, 
With  pride  unhid  and  pleasure  keen — 
The  round-writ  name  of  Merwin  Deane. 

Thus  while  he  flamed  with  open  glow, 
He  had  not  guessed,  nor  could  he  know, 
The  tithe  of  what  fair  Blanche  concealed, 
And  trembled  lest  she  had  revealed — 
Who  watched  with  wav'ring,  anxious  face, 
From  distance  meet  for  maiden's  place. 
She,  too,  that  bold  appeal  had  heard, 
With  all  her  loyal  spirit  stirred. 
The  scene  his  vision  had  foretold 
She  multiplied  an  hundred-fold, 
And  shuddered  at  the  curdling  sight, 

17 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


As  well  a  timid  maiden  might; 
But  when  he  leaped  with  purpose  high 
To  bravely  dare — perchance  to  die — 
Her  throbbing  temples  flushed  and  paled, 
And  self-control  had  well-nigh  failed; 
A  current  swelled  through  every  vein 
Surcharged  with  rapture  and  with  pain; 
She  noted  with  a  tell-tale  start 
The  noisy  tumult  of  her  heart, 
Whose  beating  sounded  like  a  voice 
That  named  the  lover  of  her  choice; 
Then  shaming  lest  her  cheek  confessed 
The  burning  secret  of  her  breast, 
She  fled  and  sought  in  safe  retreat 
Her   close-embowered  garden-seat, 
Resolved,  in  silence  and  alone 
To  hide  the  secret  all  her  own. 
For  ne'er  had  Merwin  spoke  the  word 
His  glance  had  told  but  tongue  deferred, 
And  maids  must  e'er  their  hearts  deny 
Till  men  beseech  them,  though  they  die. 
Unconscious  and  uncaring,  now, 
What  tales  were  told  by  cheek  and  brow, 
Since  others'  eyes  no  longer  viewed, 

18 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


She  paused  in  pensive  attitude; 
Her  hair,  unloosed  ere  she  had  stopped, 
In  tangle  on  her  shoulders  dropped; 
A  melancholy  veiled  her  face 
As  'twere  of  shadows  wove  in  lace, 
And  for  an  instant  halting  there 
She  looked  the  statue  of  Despair. 
But  maidens'  moods  are  wondrous  brief — 
They  change  while  falls  the  loosened  leaf; 
One  breath  was  burdened  with  a  sigh, 
The  next  was  ready  to  defy; 
Her  tardy  lover  she  abused, 
Then  all  his  tardiness  excused; 
The  right  of  usage  now  upheld, 
Now  'gainst  its  tyranny  rebelled; 
At  length  with  queries  such  as  these 
She  softly  plied  the  passing  breeze: 
"Oh!  is  it  Nature's  cruel  plan 
"That  gives  the  choosing  all  to  man? 
"Should  custom  cramp  the  candid  heart 
"And  make  it  but  a  thing  of  art? 
"The  modest  flower  its  bounty  free 
"May  offer  to  the  favored  bee; 
The  lowly  vine,  when  it  has  found 

19 


« 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


"A  way  to  climb  up  from  the  ground, 
"Puts  forth  its  tendrils  and  takes  hold — 
"And  Mother  Nature  does  not  scold; 
"Yon  robin,  from  the  topmost  bough, 
"Is  calling  for  a  partner  now 
"With  every  sweet,  impassioned  note 
"That  shakes  her  ruddy  little  throat; 
"While  I  must  cower  here  alone 
"And  shun  to  make  my  fondness  known — 
"Less  free  than  flower,  or  vine,  or  bird, 
"Must  wait  to  hear  the  spoken  word! 
"Oh!  is  it  right  my  Love  should  go 
"And  never  of  my  love  should  know?" 
A  rustle  checked  the  rising  tear — 
A  rapid  footfall  sounded  near, 
And  Merwin  bounded  to  her  side 
Aglow  with  passion  and  with  pride — 
The  martial  and  the  am'rous  flame 
Enkindling  all  his  youthful  frame. 
"My  love!" — he  cried — no  more  of  speech 
Was  needed  then,  from  each  to  each; 
Unto  his  eager  arms  and  brave 
In  swift  embrace  herself  she  gave — 
Their  lips  met  in  that  bliss  which  rolls 

20 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


Its  welcome  flood  o'er  love-drowned  souls, 

And  mute  with  that  ecstatic  sense 

They  heard  life's  deepest  eloquence. — 

Full  well  we  know  this  humble  line 

Doth  ill  befit  a  theme  divine 

Which  spurns  low  heights  and,  mounting,  flies 

To  find  expression  in  the  skies. 

But  who  could  now  such  story  tell 

In  better  way,  or  half  so  well 

As  tongue  and  pen  have  told  before 

In  strain  seraphic,  o'er  and  o'er? 

Who,  in  its  purpose,  fails  to  trace 

The  germ  eternal  of  his  race? 

The  task  were  needless  to  portray 
These  lovers  of  a  long-past  day: 
Tis  naught  to  say  the  blissful  pair 
Were  tall  and  lithe,  or  dark,  or  fair, 
Or  that  in  feature  and  in  form 
They  were  like  statues  living,  warm: 
They  had  not  rank  nor  riches  great, 
Yet  were  they  rich  in  that  estate 
Which  aged  kings,  for  chance  to  buy, 
Would  barter  all  their  royalty — 

21 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


A  queen  of  beauty,  having  lost, 

Would  purchase  back  at  any  cost — 

The  miser,  having  cheaply  sold, 

To  now  regain  would  give  his  gold — 

The  poet  willingly  bequeath 

To  Lethe's  wave  his  laurel  wreath — 

The  statesman,  hero,  or  the  sage 

Rub  out  his  name  on  Fame's  bright  page; 

Since  they  were  in  that  fair  Spring-time 

When  life  is  beautiful — sublime — 

When  it  is  ecstasy  to  live, 

And  Love  is  all  superlative — 

The  sweetest  season  ever  sung 

By  voice  or  verse — for  they  were  young. 
****** 

****** 
****** 

You  would  have  searched  throughout  the  land, 

Nor  found  a  more  devoted  band 

Than  that  which  rose  at  Bordertown 

To  put  Disunion's  menace  down. 

When  first  their  thin  but  eager  line — 

Absurdly  long  and  serpentine — 

Marched  proudly  down  th'  admiring  street, 

22 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


With  ready  but  unrhythmic  feet, 
The  very  ground  could  almost  feel 
The  tremor  of  their  untrained  zeal; 
The  very  air  that  fed  their  breath 
Seemed  burdened  with  contempt  of  death; 
As  if  they  had  been  bred  to  arms, 
To  marches,  camps,  and  rude  alarms, 
To  fierce  foray  and  gory  fight, 
That  sicken  the  unseasoned  sight. 
But  these  were  children  of  a  time 
When  war  seemed  needless  as  a  crime, 
And  peace  had  nurtured  softer  ways, 
Like  those  of  bland  Arcadian  days. 
What  magic  is  it  that  transmutes 
Mild  reason's  force  to  that  of  brutes? 
Why  should  her  throne  be  overset 
By  logic  of  the  bayonet? 
Are  we  not  Christians?    Much  we  pray 
For  Heaven's  benign,  pacific  sway, 
And  petty  striving  we  abhor — 
But  rush  into  the  hell  of  war! 
Deep-rooted  in  the  human  breast 
One  love  encircles  all  the  rest: 
'Tis  love  of  country — which  abides 

23 


IN  WAR-TIME. 

-^——5— -———!— ^— 

Through  every  change,  whate'er  betides, 
And  makes  the  land  that  gave  us  birth 
The  best-loved  portion  of  the  earth. 
The  exile — cursed  by  cruel  fate, 
Through  some  harsh  policy  of  state — 
Unsolaced  for  his  birth-land  longs, 
His  native  scenes  and  native  songs; 
The  wan  and  wretched  fugitive — 
In  banishment  constrained  to  live, 
Lest  on  his  head  his  guilt  may  draw 
The  vengeance  of  a  broken  law — 
Through  dismal  years  of  shame  and  grief 
Still  hugs  one  prospect  of  relief: 
To  reach  once  more  the  land  he  craves, 
And  lie  at  last  amid  its  graves; 
The  idler — led  by  pleasure's  wiles 
To  far-off  seas  and  shores  and  isles — 
The  student — leaving  ease  behind 
To  garner  treasures  of  the  mind, 
His  life-long  purpose  deep  to  probe 
The  widest  wisdom  of  the  globe — 
May  tarry  'neath  an  alien  sky 
Untroubled  by  one  homeward  sigh, 
Until  that  moment  when  he  sees 

24 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


His  country's  banner  in  the  breeze — 
Then  thrills  again  that  kind  of  joy 
That  swelled  his  bosom  when  a  boy, 
And  though  it  slept  a  score  of  years, 
'Twould  wake  and  wet  his  cheek  with  tears. 
The  modest  million — loving  home, 
Nor  driv'n  in  distant  lands  to  roam 
Through  state's  decree,  nor  felon's  dread, 
By  leisure  lured,  nor  learning  led — 
Still  cherish,  mid  their  tasks  of  toil, 
A  passion  for  their  native  soil, 
Which,  grafted  in  their  being,  grows 
From  life's  beginning  to  its  close. 
'Tis  woven  with  their  family  ties, 
The  sports  of  childhood  and  its  cries; 
It  mingles  in  their  later  days 
With  all  their  lives  in  myriad  ways — 
'Tis  on  the  landscape — in  the  air— 
In  work — in  worship — everywhere. 
And  these  are  patriots — aye,  for  these 
Demand  no  honors  nor  degrees, 
But,  like  their  fathers  in  the  past, 
They'll  serve  their  country  to  the  last; 
When  duty  calls  to  danger's  post, 

25 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


These  are  her  safe-guard — these  her  boast; 
From  mill  and  workshop,  forge  and  field — 
A  phalanx  quick  to  warfare  steeled — 
They  come  unhalting  to  debate 
Their  dole  of  fortune  or  of  fate; 
To  live  and  wear  an  honored  name, 
Partaking  of  the  nation's  fame — 
Or  lie  beneath  some  sculptured  stone — 
Or,  mayhap,  fill  a  grave  unknown. 

An  artist  hand  should  paint  the  scene — 

So  proud — so  glad — so  sad  between — 

When  these  crude  warriors  bade  adieu 

And  marched  away  to  rendezvous. 

Those  lovers  of  the  common-weal — 

The  country-folk — on  hoof  and  wheel 

At  early  hour  came  gathering  in, 

With  clatter  and  rumble  and  hurry  and  din,- 

For,  in  the  conflict  now  begun, 

The  town  and  country  were  as  one, 

And  rustic  fervor  equaled  quite 

The  valor  of  the  village  knight. 

Ere  long  all  round  the  public  square, 

From  cart  and  wagon,  here  and  there, 

26 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


The  drowsy  plough-horse  munched  his  feed, 
Untaught  to  play  the  warlike  steed 
Or  drag  the  cannon  at  his  heels 
Or  stand  with  its  unlimbered  wheels, 
Unscared  the  while  it  belched  and  roared 
And  bolts  of  murderous  thunder  poured. 
The  faithful  farm-dog  lay  beneath, 
Alert  to  growl  and  show  his  teeth, 
Or  oft,  with  anger  bristling  large, 
Arose  and  circled  round  his  charge 
With  tail  erect  and  stiffened  leg 
And  step  so  light  'twould  spare  an  egg. 
All  noise  of  daily  toil  was  still 
Except  the  droning  of  the  mill, 
Whose  busy  wheel  had  never  missed 
To  promptly  grind  the  waiting  grist. 
The  keepers  of  the  village  stores 
Had  closed  their  blinds  and  locked  their  doors — 
They  could  not  think  of  sordid  gains 
With  blood  a-tingling  in  their  veins. 
To-day  no  anvil  stroke  was  heard — 
A  sound  familiar  as  a  word 
To  every  ear  the  village  round, 
And  e'en  beyond  its  farthest  bound. 

27 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


The  vacant  shop  told  all  the  tale; 

An  apron  hung  upon  a  nail — 

There  was  no  fire  to  gleam  and  glow, 

No  hand  to  make  the  bellows  blow; 

The  brawny  tenant — loyal  soul! — 

But  yesterday  had  "signed  the  roll." 

Up  on  a  flag-pole  staunch  and  high 

In  billowy  curves  against  the  sky — 

Resplendent  in  the  lucent  air — 

A  starry  banner  floated  fair; 

And  where  its  wavering  shadow  fell 

Beside  the  old-time  public  well, 

The  fife  and  drum  with  clangor  loud 

Had  gathered  all  the  feverish  crowd. 

No  bosom  then  but  felt  the  stir; 

Yet,  many  an  eye  looked  through  a  blur 

Upon  a  show  to  others  gay 

As  any  common  holiday. 

The  deeper  touches  of  the  heart 

Were  in  those  circles  drawn  apart, 

Like  eddies — when  they  ofttimes  seem 

Divided  from  the  flowing  stream. 

Just  here,  in  wildering  shyness,  stood 

A  group  from  rural  neighborhood — 

28 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


A  son,  strong-limbed,  coarse-clad,  and  tanned, 

With  labor's  hardness  of  the  hand 

And  manner  lacking  townly  grace, 

But  wearing  truth  upon  his  face — 

Where  honesty  was  writ  so  plain, 

That  if  you'd  split  his  heart  in  twain 

And  lay  it  open  like  a  book — 

You'd  read  the  same  as  in  his  look; 

His  patriot  father,  proud  to  spare 

His  manly  and  ambitious  heir 

To  serve  the  flag,  as  well  became 

A  scion  of  his  loyal  name; 

The  mother,  having  equal  pride, 

And  that  unfathomed  love  beside 

Vouchsafed  unto  the  honored  wife 

Who  brings  into  the  world  a  life: 

Behold  her  now  while  there  she  stands 

With  furrowed  brow  and  folded  hands 

And  smile  so  full  of  sacrifice 

'Twould  melt  the  lock  of  Paradise. 

But  she  is  a  patriot  mother,  true, 

And,  as  historic  mothers  do, 

She  tries  to  deem  it  only  joy 

To  thus  devote  her  stalwart  boy; 

29 


IN  WAR-TIME. 

=—•—•=•- 

The  trial  all  her  duty  strains, 
But  what  she  cannot  feel  she  feigns, 
And  falsely  says  that  she  is  glad — 
The  lie's  too  sacred  to  be  bad! 
Outside  the  crowd  that  clamored  by, 
One  well-known  figure  filled  the  eye— 
The  blacksmith—  big,  robust,  and  red, 
With  locks  crisp-curling  round  his  head — 
With  Vulcan's  visage  and  his  arm, 
And  bust  that  would  old  Phidias  charm; 
Up  to  his  gaze  his  fragile  spouse 
Reluctant  raised  her  timid  brows, 
Where  plaintive  shadows  now  displayed 
The  ravage  that  a  day  had  made. 
With  all  the  pathos  of  the  poor, 
To  please  his  eye  that  day  she  wore 
His  favorite  and  her  choicest  gown, 
Of  awkward  cut  and  faded  brown; 
But  yet,  though  poor,  one  gem  she  had 
Might  make  a  royal  princess  glad — 
One  priceless  jewel  on  her  breast — 
The  darling  infant  that  she  pressed: 
She  joyed  to  feel  its  hearty  tug 
The  while  it  fed  beneath  her  hug. 

30 


umvcKoi  I  T 

OF 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


The  sinewed  Samson  dared  not  speak, 
Lest  tears  betray  his  courage  weak; 
This  moment  he  could  only  yearn 
For  that  sweet  day  when  he'd  return. 
Alas!  ere  half  a  year  was  gone 
The  roll-call  missed  the  man  of  brawn — 
The  wife  put  on  the  widow's  veil — 
The  babe  knew  not  its  loss  to  wail. — 
While  other  hearts  their  feeling  proved, 
Why  seemed  young  Merwin  so  unmoved? 
Why  lingered  Blanche  so  far  aloof, 
And,  if  she  sorrowed,  gave  no  proof? 
The  secret  they  could  hide  so  well 
The  mute,  eaves-dropping  stars  might  tell. 
Last  evening,  ere  the  shadows  dim 
Had  robbed  the  gold  from  daylight's  rim, 
He  hasted  through  the  silent  street 
Unto  that  hallowed  garden-seat 
Where  bided  now  his  bosom's  mate, 
Reproachful  that  he  came  so  late. 
At  first  her  chiding  made  him  vain; 
It  wounded  with  a  welcome  pain, 
Until  he  sweetly  stopped  her  speech 
In  that  old  way  no  art  doth  teach 

31 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


But  lovers  know  so  well  to  use 
And  red-lipped  maids  can  scarce  refuse. 
Too  soon  again  her  murmurs  rose 
O'er  silly  fears  and  fancied  woes; 
She  listened  to  his  fondling  phrase, 
But  answered  with  o'er-painted  praise; 
Her  fear  of  rivals  took  alarm; 
She  was  so  plain,  so  poor  of  charm, 
And  he  so  god-like,  ah !  she  knew 
He  never,  never  could  be  true! 
Each  needless  pang,  each  new  distress, 
He  softened  with  a  new  caress, — 
Till  harshly  on  his  hearing  smote 
The  jarring  of  a  jealous  note! 
Disdainful  silence  woke  her  ire; 
Denial  only  added  fire; 
Anon,  with  pique  and  spirit  stung, 
They  loosed  the  lightning  of  the  tongue 
And  quarreled,  with  a  passion  fine, 
Despite  that  other  called  divine. 
Bewildered  youth!  how  could  he  know 
That  which  has  puzzled  sages  so? — 
That  she  who  can  so  fondly  love 
With  equal  fondness  can  reprove. 

32 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


For  it  is  true — the  wise  ones  say — 
That  it  was  always  woman's  way 
By  turns  to  gratify  and  grieve, 
Since  Adam  heard  the  voice  of  Eve. 
Alas!  that  love's  keen  dart  should  be 
So  keenly  barbed  with  jealousy! 
And  yet — although  it  oft  may  sting — 
Without  the  barb  it  would  not  cling. 
Forgiving  is  the  sweetest  balm 
That  ever  heals  'twixt  palm  and  palm; 
And  oh!  what  balm  celestial  drips 
From  the  forgiving  lover's  lips! 
Down  from  the  cloud  of  their  distress 
A  deluge  dropt  of  tenderness; 
Quick  rose  again  upon  her  sight 
The  carnage  of  the  coming  fight; 
Upon  some  red  and  war-drenched  plain 
She  pictured  Merwin  mangled,  slain! 
And  piteously  she  begged  him  now 
That  he'd  revoke  his  soldier's  vow 
And  free  her  from  the  torturing  dread 
Of  living  on  if  he  were  dead. 
He  sternly  loosed  his  fond  embrace, 
And  in  his  valor-lighted  face — 

33 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


Despite  that  she  had  pleaded  so — 
She  gladly  read  his  manly  "No!" 
For  beauty  from  the  coward  flies, 
And  love  decays  when  honor  dies. 

No  more  she  faltered—calm,  serene, 

She  played  the  parting  like  a  queen — 

"Farewell,  my  hero!  go — be  brave! 

"To-morrow,  from  the  hill-top,  wave 

"Your  final  signal  back  to  me — 

"I  shall  not  weep,  but  I  shall  see." 

And  so,  to-day — their  farewell  said — 

No  childish  tears  they  weakly  shed, 

But,  like  young  Spartans,  hid  the  ache 

That  pulled  their  heart-strings  nigh  to  break. 


What  new-born  Muse,  in  fitting  rhyme, 
Will  sing  the  urchin  of  that  time? 
Who  nightly  battled  in  his  sleep 
And  saw  his  countless  victims  weep; 
Who  daily  with  his  sword  of  wood 
O'ercame  a  fancied  multitude; 
An  hundred  times  made  mimic  war, 
An  hundred  times  was  conqueror! 

34 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


No  mystic  ray  need  search  him  through 

To  find  his  loyalty  true-blue; 

His  screaming  treble  made  it  known 

As  if  'twere  by  a  bugle  blown. 

His  wiser  seniors  all  confessed 

Their  boyhood's  age  the  blessedest — 

Yet  by  such  blessing  he  was  curst, 

'Twas  fate  the  wretchedest  and  worst! 

Bewitched  by  glamour  of  the  strife 

He  would  have  pawned  the  future  life, 

With  all  its  promises  of  bliss, 

To  be  a  soldier  now  in  this. — 

What  though  a  lad  of  larger  growth 

With  perjured  conscience  took  the  oath 

And  fought  where  veterans  might  have  feared, 

Ere  yet  his  cheek  had  grown  a  beard? 

God  measures  by  no  iron  gauge; 

Upon  the  great  accusing  page 

Some  holy  sins,  we're  fain  to  think, 

Are  not  writ  down  in  fadeless  ink.  — 

Adown  the  ranks  came  one  whose  name 
Had  felt  the  touch  of  martial  fame — 
In  that  far  day  a  rare  renown, 

35 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


That  shed  its  lustre  on  the  town, 
Whose  very  place  was  known,  perhaps, 
More  by  his  name  than  by  the  maps. 
A  man  he  was  of  sturdy  mould, 
Of  that  good  age — nor  young,  nor  old — 
When  well-knit  strength  and  wisdom  join- 
The  manful  prime  of  brain  and  loin. 
Schoolboys  had  read  and  oft  declaimed, 
How,  midst  the  dying  and  the  maimed, 
He'd  bravely  faced  his  country's  foe 
One  bloody  day  in  Mexico. 
'Twas  said — on  Buena  Vista's  field 
When  one  who  bore  the  colors  reeled 
And  fell,  this  hero  sprang  and  gripped 
The  staff  as  from  his  hand  it  slipped, 
And  saved  it  from  dishonoring  dust; 
A  lance  had  given  his  thigh  a  thrust; 
A  sabre-blow  had  split  his  cheek; 
From  plenteous  bleeding  he  was  weak, 
Yet,  like  a  lion  newly  hurt 
And  so  enraged,  with  sudden  spurt 
He  fiercely  seized  the  hostile  blade 
Whose  edge  the  angry  gash  had  made, 
And  tearing  it  from  the  foeman's  hand 

36 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


He  flashed  aloft  the  captive  brand; 
A  second  lance  was  at  his  throat — 
The  threat'ning  shaft  he  deftly  smote 
And  turned  its  gleaming  point  aside, 
Then  waved  his  colors  high  and  wide; 
His  fainting  comrades  rallied  then 
And  fighting  madly— one  to  ten — 
They  held  the  red  and  slippery  ground 
Which,  ever  since,  was  glory-crowned! 
Ah!  surely  this  good  blade  must  be 
A  talisman  of  victory, 
If  its  brave  captor  will  but  lead; 
And  even  so  it  is  decreed 
This  is  the  Captain — one  whom  Fate 
Reserves  and  destines  to  be  great; 
His  shoulder  bears  no  strap  or  bar — 
He  wears  that  sabre  and  a  scar. 
Where'er  he  halts,  or  walks  along, 
He  wins  the  homage  of  the  throng; 
The  waiting  ranks  impatient  stand 
To  catch  the  throb  of  his  command; 
At  length  'tis  sounded — "Forward!  March!' 
As  if  it  fell  from  Heaven's  arch; 
With  worthier  impulse  forth  they  start 

37 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


Than  ever  fired  crusader's  heart; 
And  mark  how  well,  though  little  wont, 
To-day  they  keep  their  eyes  a-front, 
Unswerved  by  all  the  loud  huzzas 
That  fill  their  ears  with  fond  applause; 
Bright  kerchiefs  wave  and  hats  are  swung 
With  every  burst  of  lip  and  lung — 
They  march  right  on  with  rigid  pride, 
That  will  not  cast  one  glance  aside. 
They  pass  the  mill  whose  well-known  pile 
From  every  window  seems  to  smile; 
They  file  below  the  rocky  ledge, 
Where  halts  the  crowd  upon  the  edge; 
They  cross  the  brook,  beside  whose  bank 
They  oft  have  waded  and  have  drank; 
They  take  the  winding  road  beyond, 
Mid  scenes  to  recollection  fond — 
The  field,  the  orchard,  and  the  woods, 
The  meadow — sweet  in  all  its  moods — 
Where  oft  in  summer  morning  blithe 
They've  heard  the  whetting  of  the  scythe; 
Where  flits  and  sings  the  meadow-lark, 
A  glint  of  yellow  like  a  spark 
And  song  that  stirs  the  human  deeps 

38 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


Where  Memory  dwells  and  Pathos  sleeps. 

Anon  on  fitful  breezes  come 

The  echoes  of  the  fife  and  drum; 

Where'er  in  sight  the  roadway  bends, 

The  watching  throng  a  greeting  sends; 

But  all  save  breathing,  now,  is  still, 

For — see!  they're  climbing  Byron's  Hill, 

Whose  wooded  top  and  farther  side 

From  further  view  will  soon  divide; 

They  round  the  verge — they  reach  the  crest- 

And  with  emotion  in  each  breast 

They  face  about  and  give  a  cheer 

That  flies  across  the  atmosphere; 

They  wheel  again — they're  marching  on — 

A  moment  more  and  they  are  gone! 

The  latest  signal  that  was  seen, 

Was  waved  by  gallant  Merwin  Deane; 

The  eye  that  saw  it  latest  there 

Was  that  of  loving  Blanche  Adair. 
****** 

****** 

No  blither  morning  ever  broke 
Than  that  when  Merwin  first  awoke 
To  hear  the  camp's  loud  reveille, 

39 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


As  dawn  spread  over  tent  and  tree. 
His  wont  had  been  at  that  rare  hour 
When  sleep  still  wields  a  waning  pow'r, 
To  linger,  lock'd  in  slumb'rous  ease, 
And  drift  away  on  dream-land  seas 
Through  Fantasy's  illusive  realm 
In  bark  bereft  of  keel  and  helm — 
Or  else,  half -waked,  with  drowsy  ear 
To  note  the  crow  of  chanticleer — 
The  pigeon's  coo — the  bob-white's  call — 
The  horses  neighing  in  their  stall — 
The  lowing  of  the  hungry  kine — 
His  faithful  spaniel's  coaxing  whine, 
Which  waited  for  him  at  the  door 
To  lick  his  hand  and  run  before. 
But  scorning  weak  indulgence  now 
He  brushed  the  dullness  from  his  brow 
And  bounded  forth  with  agile  haste — 
Wide-eyed,  alert,  and  eager-faced — 
As  radiant  in  this  school  of  war 
As  children  in  their  primers  are. 
He  heard  the  sergeant's  warning  shout — 
"Turn  out  for  roll-call,  men,  turn  out! ' 
Right  promptly  into  line  he  came, 

40 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


And  when  the  sergeant  called  his  name, 

He  made  his  answer  deep  and  hoarse, 

To  give  his  voice  a  manlier  force. 

Thus  ere  the  rising  of  the  sun 

His  new  career  was  well  begun. 

It  were  a  task  for  tardy  prose, 

Which  in  more  leisure  current  flows, 

But  much  too  tedious  and  too  long 

For  hastening  rhyme  and  hurried  song — 

Nor  would  it  aught  of  worth  avail 

To  loiter  over  each  detail 

Of  duty  and  of  discipline 

He  took  his  daily  lessons  in; 

To  load,  to  aim,  to  fire,  to  charge 

With  eye  ablaze  and  nostril  large, 

And  all  of  battle's  alphabet, 

Which  spelleth  blood  when  foes  are  met. 

This  stripling  reared  mid  peaceful  fields, 

Where  savageness  to  softness  yields — 

Who  oft  had  rambled  through  the  dells 

And  heard  the  distant  village  bells, 

But  rarely  ranged  beyond  the  hills 

Whose  ridge  barred  out  the  world's  great  ills 

And  circled  with  its  far  outline 

•  41 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


The  spot  which  was  to  him  divine: 

Who  ne'er  had  felt  severer  pain 

Than  ache  of  tooth  or  ankle-sprain, 

Nor  ever  looked  on  carnage  red 

Save  in  the  village  butcher's  shed — 

In  garb  and  bearing  now  transformed, 

With  war's  mere  foretaste  heaved  and  warmed. 

So  men  in  every  clime  and  age 

Have  swelled  and  flamed  with  martial  rage: 

The  haughtiest  and  holiest, 

The  lordliest  and  lowliest, 

Have  worshiped  the  heroic  heart 

And  flock  to  pay  their  homage  still 

Unto  the  great  enduring  art 

Of  how  to  conquer  or  to  kill. 

If  wars  must  come,  as  once  foretold 

By  HIM  who  came  to  earth  of  old, 

All  heralded  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

To  win  from  woe  a  world's  release — 

Then  honor  and  all  sweet  applause 

To  him  who  fights  for  worthy  cause; 

But  some  have  worn  the  plumes  of  war 

Scarce  heeding  what  they  battled  for. — 

One  thing  he  learned  without  delay, 

42 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


- 

The  chiefest  duty:  to  obey. 
It  is  but  loyal  to  the  truth 
To  say  he  was  no  spineless  youth 
Who  brooked  abuse  or  studied  slight 
When  honor  whispered  him  to  fight; 
Yet  he  was  of  that  gentle  mould 
That  dares  in  danger  to  be  bold 
But  shrinks  from  word  or  look  austere 
From  finer  sense  than  that  of  fear. — 
By  reason  of  unknown  delays 
That  hindered  in  those  troublous  days, 
Long  time  he  had  no  uniform 
To  nurse  his  pride  and  keep  it  warm; 
No  warlike  weapon  graced  his  hand 
To  flourish  with  defiance  grand. 
No  soul  is  fired  to  fight  and  bleed 
In  sober  and  unmartial  tweed 
As  when  in  panoply  arrayed, 
To  dazzle  and  to  make  afraid. 
And,  oh!  what  keen  delight  he  knew 
The  day  he  donned  the  brass  and  blue! 
How  like  a  fierce  destroyer  he  felt 
With  musket,  cartridge-box,  and  belt, 
And  thought  what  privilege  't  would  be 

43 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


If  those  at  home  could  only  see! 
With  bent  for  training  aptly  turned 
By  patient  drill,  ere  long  he  learned 
To  face,  to  march,  to  wheel,  to  stand, 
Obedient  to  the  sharp  command — 
To  hear  unvexed  the  brusque  reproof 
And  recognize  its  plain  behoof. 
His  tender  flesh  could  well  avouch 
The  hardness  of  his  soldier-couch; 
But  youth  and  usage  put  to  shame 
The  mind  to  murmur  or  to  blame. 
Though  oft  those  dainties  he  deplored 
That  heaped  at  home  the  bounteous  board, 
His  sharpened  palate  relished  soon 
The  coarsest  fare  of  pot  and  spoon. 
The  days  of  storm  and  nights  unstarred 
As  sentinel  he  stood  on  guard 
And  held  his  post  with  such  a  sense 
Of  worth  and  mighty  consequence 
That  neither  bribe  of  tempting  gold, 
Nor  fearsome  threat,  nor  flattery  bold, 
Nor  comrade's  plea,  nor  smile  of  lass 

Could  wring  from  him  the  right  to  pass. 
****** 

44 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


At  midnight  on  the  picket  line 
The  reigning  stillness  gave  no  sign 
That  aught  of  danger  hovered  near 
That  e'en  a  timorous  heart  might  fear. 
At  break  of  day  a  shot  was  fired, 
And  ere  the  echo  had  expired, 
A  clear  and  ringing  shot  replied 
Which  soon  was  tenfold  multiplied; 
As  from  a  drop  the  shower  grows 
The  brisk  and  rattling  skirmish  rose. 
Not  long  the  pickets  bore  the  brunt 
Of  pressure  on  their  scattered  front, 
But  stubborn  still  they  still  gave  way 
Before  the  impetuous  line  of  gray, 
Nor  halted  till  they  held  in  view 
The  swiftly  forming  ranks  of  blue. 
A  yell  broke  on  the  sulph'rous  air, 
Enough  to  raise  each  bristling  hair; 
Then  broke  the  battle's  pent-up  wrath, 
As  tempests  break  upon  their  path, 
And  that  which  was  but  din  before 
Was  now  a  wide-spread  deafening  roar; 
While  hoarse  with  slaughter's  awful  thirst 
The  cannon  gave  its  opening  burst. 

****** 

45 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


THE  SOUTHERN  TROOPER. 

Far  down  in   the   Southland,   where  flowers  were 
blooming 
And  breathing  their  sweets  on  the  soft  April 

air, 
An  old  negro  bondman  a  war-steed  was  grooming, 

To  bear  his  young  master — bold  Allen  Sinclair. 
The  slave  had  been  born  to  his  bondage — a  chattel, 
A  thing  to  be  trafficked  and  holden  like  cattle; 
His  light-hearted  master  was  fated  to  battle 

As  Slavery's  defender,  though  Liberty's  heir. 

The  century's  laws  to  the  white  man  had  granted 
A  license  that  rested  on  barbarous  might; 

He  took  from  the  black  what  his  labor  had  planted, 
And  deemed  that  law's  sanction  had  made  it  his 
right. 

He  scouted  all  threat  of  a  reckoning  season; 

Environed  like  him,  could    we   challenge  his  reason? 

With  a  patriot's  fire,  though  guilty  of  treason, 
He  rode  forth — a  cavalier — burning  to  fight. 


46 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


The  Southron  was  valiant  but  haughty,  and  scorning 

The  name  of  the  foe  he  was  destined  to  meet, 
He  galloped  away  in  the  fine  April  morning 

Full  sure  of  his  prowess  and  firm  in  his  seat. 
In  spirit  superb  and  by  ancestry  flattered, 
He  fell  into  dreaming  as  onward  he  clattered — 
He  saw  the  invaders  all  vanquished  and  scattered — 
He  dreamed  but  of  triumph — not  once  of  defeat. 

A  moment  he  halted  where  dwelt  a  rare  beauty — 
A  belle  of  the  Southland — his  fair  lady-love; 

As  mark  of  her  favor  and  meed  of  his  duty 

She  leaned  from  the  window  and  threw  him  her 
glove. 

"Adieu!  "  sang  the  rider — away  he  went  flying 

To  fields  that  ere  long  would  be  strewn  with  the  dying; 

"Adieu !  "  cried  the  maid — more  sanguine  than  sighing — 
As  proud  as  a  princess  and  pure  as  a  dove. 


47 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


The     hoof -beats     grew    fainter  —  she     lingered     and 
listened — 

Her  breathing  more  soft  than  the  breath  of  a  bird — 
Till  on  her  dark  lashes  the  rising  drops  glistened, 

And  only  her  heart-beat  was  all  that  she  heard. 
"Thank  Heaven!"  she  cried,  "that  Allen  departed 
"Before  this  weak  flood  from  my  eye-lids  had  started — 
"He  went  as  he  should,  like  a  knight  lion-hearted, 

"Unsoftened  by  tears  and  unchecked  by  a  word." 

The  steed  and  his  rider — in  sympathy  blended — 
Had  sped  o'er  the  road  as  if  racing  for  gain ; 

Their  mood  was  now  cooler,  and  Allen,  low-bended, 
Slacked  rein  while  he  fondled  the  long,  flowing 
mane. 

"Well  done!"  said  he  gaily,  "my  fleet-footed  Golder! 

"Fair  Evlyn  shall  know,  before  time  is  much  older, 

"That  none  in  the  fray  can  be  swifter  and  bolder 

"Than  thou  and  myself,  till  we're  sundered  or  slain." 


48 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


What  further  he  spoke  had  the  accent  of  sadness, 
But  anger  shone  hot  in  the  glance  of  his  eye ; 
"My  grey-headed  sire  declares  it  is  madness 

"To  take  up  the  sword,  but  the  charge  I  deny. 
"He  loves  the  old  flag;  in  the  day  of  its  splendor 
"The  South  was  its  truest  and  bravest  defender; 
"Usurped  by  a  foe  that  would  ravage  and  rend  her — 
"She  guards  it  no  longer,  but  stands  to  defy." 


"My  State  is  a  sovereign,  in  league  with  'King  Cotton* — 
"Not  a  vassal  to  serve  the  'Dominion  of  Corn'; 

"I  hail  our  new  flag — let  the  old  be  forgotten! 
"My  homage  I  give  to  a  Power  new-born. 

"We've  cast  off  the  Union — our  burden  unloading; 

"We've  done  with  the  fret  of  the  yoke,  and  the  goading; 

"Away  with  regret,  and  with  craven  foreboding — 

"Good-bye   to   old  yesterday — welcome   the   morn!" 


49 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


From  camp  in  the  distance  a  signal  is  sounded — 
His  answering  yell  made  the  wide  forest  ring; 

A  touch  of  the  spur  and  forward  he  bounded 

As  quick  as  an  arrow  let  loose  from  the  string. 

In  the  light  of  Ambition — a  glamour  deceiving — 

The  loom  of  his  fancy  a  fabric  was  weaving 

Whose  warp  is  of  glory — whose  woof  is  of  grieving—- 
Whose purple  is  deeper  than  covers  a  king. 

k. 

O,  treacherous  war!    No  word  was  e'er  spoken 

More  fair,  when  thine  to  the  Southland  was  said; 

But  when  her  brave  armies  were  riven  and  broken, 
And  women  were  sobbing  with  anguish  and  dread — 

How  changed  was  thy  visage!   How  grievous  and  gory! 

The  pen  that  records  and  illumines  thy  story, 

Is  plucked,  not  alone  from  the  pinion  of  glory, 

But  as  oft  from  the  vulture  that  feeds  on  the  dead! 


50 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


At  twilight  all  bleeding  we  lay  side  by  side, 

My  gallant  young  foeman  and  I, 
On  the  field  where  we  fell  when  the  battle's  red  tide 

Like  a  wave  of  destruction  rolled  by. 
All  the  hate  I  had  felt  in  the  heat  of  the  strife 

Had  vanished  and  gone  like  a  breath, 
And  I  fain  would  have  shared  my  own  poor  chance  of 
life 

To  rescue  the  trooper  from  death. 

"I'm  dying,"  he  whispered,  "no  comrade  is  near 

"But  chivalry  ever  is  true — 
"The  secret  I  hold  that  none  other  can  hear 

"I  trust  it,  my  foeman,  to  you; 
"See — here  on  my  breast — a  poor  tattered  glove — 

"  'T  was  a  maiden  as  fair  as  the  day 
"Who  threw  from  her  window  this  token  of  love 

"The  morning  I  galloped  away. 


51 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


"I've  worn  it  with  honor,  as  her  lover  should, 

"Where  danger  fell  thick  as  the  rain; 
"And  though  it  is  blotted  to-day  by  my  blood, 

"It  carries  no  uglier  stain. 
"I  pray  that  if  ever  a  chance  should  betide 

"You'll  kindly  bring  back  to  her  hand 
"This  pledge  of  her  faith  and  proof  that  I  died 

"All  worthy — and  shell  understand. 

"She  lives  where  the  river  sweeps  round  a  wide  bend 

"In  a  mansion  whose  fashion  is  past; 
"A  window  swells  out  from  the  far  eastern  end 

"Where  Evlyn" — that  word  was  his  last. — 
The  wound  of  that  night  has  hindered  me  long 

From  keeping  true  faith  with  my  foe; 
Fair  stranger,  take  note  of  the  quest  in  my  song — 

Do  you  know  the  fair  maid — do  you  know? 


52 


AT    THE   AGE    OF    TWENTY-SIX 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


A  PERSONAL  REMINISCENCE  OF  SHILOH. 

The    firing    slacked    a    little    while,    that    fateful 
Shiloh  day, 
Their  line  fell  back  within  the  woods  and  left 

us  there  at  bay; 
The  smoke  was  slowly  lifting,  but  the  soil  was  red  and 

wet 
Where  in  the  combat's  deadly  rage  our  lines  had  lately 

met. 
Beyond  our  front,  upon  the  ground  which  battle's  breath 

had  fanned, 

Upraised  and  feebly  beckoning,  we  saw  a  single  hand. 
"See!    Sergeant!" — said  a  comrade  near — "that  signal 

of  distress! " 

With  impulse  born  of  sympathy  and  youthful  eagerness 
I  sprang  out  through  the  opening,  and  swiftly  reached 

the  spot 

Where  lay  one  of  the  enemy,  pierced  by  a  fatal  shot. 
"Water!  " — said    he    plaintively — and    quick    from    my 

canteen 

He  cooled  the  thirsty  agony  which  dying  made  so  keen. 
"God   bless   you,    friend!    there's    danger   here — make 
haste!  be  quick  and  go! 

55 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


"They'll  soon  come  back — my  regiment— they'll  charge 

again,  I  know! " 
But  yet  his  hand  lay  on  my  arm— once  more  his  fevered 

lips 

Drank  eagerly  a  sweeter  draft  than  e'er  th'  undying  sips. 
Then,  smiling,  tried — but  tried  in  vain — to  say  the  word 

"Good-bye  "— 

I  heard  my  comrade's  warning  shout  and  left  him  there 
to  die. 


The  patter  of  the  skirmish  line — the  thick  and  madden- 
ing roar 

Swept  swiftly  o'er  the  scene  again,  more  deadly  than 
before. 

Scant  time  for  human  sympathy — scant  time  for  pity 
then— 

The  frenzy  of  the  fighting  soon  made  demons  out  of 
men; 

A  kind  of  savage  rapture  through  the  soldier's  bosom 

thrills 

When  carnage  rules  his  spirit  and  he  pities  not,  but  kills. 
Say  not  that  men  were  braver  in  some  far-off,  by-gone 

age — 
My  eyes  saw  deeds  of  valor  there  would  shine  on 

Homer's  page. 

66 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


Ah!    I  had  many  a  comrade  then  whose  over-flaming 
ire 

Relighted  my  own  waning  torch  with  his  contagious 
fire; 

For  oft  I  felt  my  courage  sink  but  bolstered  it  with 
pride, 

And  in  those  swelling  moments  I  could  manfully  have 
died. 

In  battle's  bloody  ordeal — that  fierce  and  cruel  game — 
Does  not  the  fear  that  faces  it  deserve  a  fairer  name? 

You  all  know  well  the  history  of  that  disputed  field; 

Before  a  fiery  avalanche  our  left  was  forced  to  yield, 

And  miles  of  dead  at  night  lay  hi  the  sombre,  southern 
wood, 

Where   miles   of  wavering   battle-lines   that   day   had 
swayed  and  stood. 

And  Oh  I   that  night  of  agony  1 — the  wretchedness  and 
pain 

Which  made  the  wounded  envious  of  those  who  had 
been  slain! 

While  through  the  age-long  interval  of  deep  and  dread 
suspense 

A  load  of  more  than  mountain's  weight  bore  on  the  ach- 
ing sense, 

57 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


As  if  a  fiend  were  torturing  each  bare  and  quivering 

nerve— 
'T would  shake  the  sullen  savage,  aye,  'twould  make  a 

stoic  swerve! 
Will  time  e'er  bring  the  fruitage  of  that  hope  now  in 

the  bud, 
When  men  will  cease  from  laureling  the  fame  that  feeds 

on  blood? 

At  dawn  a  burst  of  fury  came  like  that  of  yesterday. 

But  Buell's  men  stood  with  us  now,  in  bold  and  stern 
array; 

Like  flames  in  stubble  newly  spread  afresh  our  spirits 
burned, 

And  ere  the  sun  had  quit  the  East  their  columns  back- 
ward turned; 

Then  loud  and  long  our  cheers  rang  out — more  tame 
their  answering  yell — 

Their  fierce  but  fitful  firing  yet  more  faint  and  fainter 
fell, 

Until  the  distant  booming  of  the  far  retreating  gun 

Proclaimed  we  were  the  victors! — the  gory  field  was 
won. — 


V 


58 


IN  WAR-TIME. 


The  story  of  that  battle-field  seems  never  to  grow  old; 
Nay,  it  was  only  yesterday  again  I  heard  it  told. 
'T  was  in  a  group  of  veterans — a  gray  and  grizzly  group, 
Whose   steps  had  lost  their  measured  spring,  whose 

shoulders  had  a  stoop—- 
And when  the  rousing  climax   came  that  overflowed 

each  breast, 

I  felt  the  rush  of  memories  and  shouted  with  the  rest. 
But  I  did  no  deed  of  valor  there  to  honor  or  to  boast; 
He  only  does  his  duty  well  who  only  holds  his  post, 
And  chaplets  are  not  fashioned  for  the  common  soldier's 

brow. 
But  there's  one  thought  that  warms  my  heart  and  swells 

my  bosom   now, 

When  I  recall  the  vision  of  that  famous  battle-scene: 
'Tis   just   that   gift   of   water   from   my   battered   old 

canteen. 


59 


LIFE'S  FLEETING  SHOW, 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


AN   IDYL. 


Deep  in  a  wood,  where  boughs  o'erhung  its  rounded 
shore, 
A  smiling  lake  was  hid.    Drawn  by  some  view- 
less thread 
Of   chance,   one   summer  morn,   my  footsteps  thither 

came. 

The  sun  had  climbed  half-way  to  noon — and  roving  bees 
Robbed  wantonly  the  waiting  flowers,  while  bird-notes 

filled 

The  echoing  woods  with  sound.    As  pensively  I  leaned 
Against  a  friendly  oak,  a  nimble-footed  fawn — 
Still  faintly  marked  with  many  a  finger-touch  of  white 
Upon  its  silky  coat  of  tan — stole  shyly  from 
The  leafy  shade  and  stood  upon  the  lake's  moist  rim; 
There,  as  it  dipped  its  dainty  head,  I  saw  its  nether 
Twin  in  counter  movement  rise,  till  lip  met  lip 
Just  on  the  water's  face,  and  circling  ripples  broke 
The  shadowy  counterfeit.    Thence — bending  slow  on  me 
Its  curious  gaze — with  alternating  start  and  pause 
The  timorous  thing  drew  near  and  touched  my  offered 
hand. 

63 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


That  moment  a  soaring  vulture's  shadow  chanced  to  fall 
Athwart  my  breast,  and,  on  the  instant, — seized  with 

fright — 
The  fawn  fled  wild-eyed  from  my  sight,  nor  once  looked 

back. — 

It  seemed  but  childish  fancy,  yet  I  felt  a  pang, 
As  of  a  broken  trust,  or  severed  sympathy. 
On  many  morrows  yearningly  I  came  unto 
That  spot,  but  nevermore   found  fawn   or  foot-print 

there. — 
'Twas  late  I  learned  how  true  my  life  was  symbol'd 

there. 

******** 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


LADDIE. 

(Written  for  a  Ballad  Singer,  Mrs.  J.  M.  P.) 

Omy  laddie!    my  dearie! 
Ye  dinna  ken  how  weary 
The  day  is  gaun  wi'out  ye, 
For  I'm  thinkin'  aye  about  ye; 
I  pine  to  hear  ye  whistle 

Like  larks  aboon  the  thistle — 
I'm  nigh  to  greet  while  here  my  lane, 
I  bide,  I  bide  for  ye,  my  ain! 

Oh!  how  brawlie  and  cantie — 

Wi'  arm  baith  strang  and  tentie — 
Ye  bore  me  o'er  the  heather 

Just  as  light  as  ony  feather; 
Your  plaidie  was  around  me 

But  anither  fetter  bound  me — 
For,  Oh!  how  gladsome  I  had  seen 

That  leuk — that  leuk  frae   out  your  een. 

O,  my  laddie!  my  laddie! 

I  lo'e  your  very  plaidie — 
I  lo'e  your  very  bonnet 

65 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


Wi*  the  silver  bickle  on  it; 
I  lo'e  your  collie,  Harry, 

I  lo'e  the  kent  ye  carry — 
But  Oh!   I  hae  nae  pow'r  to  tell 

How  much — how  much  I  lo'e  yersel'! 


66 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


LOVE'S    TRAGEDY. 


You  ask  me  why  I  am  still  unwed; 
I  do  not  know, 
Unless,  in  truth,  it  must  be  said 
That  by  some  unseen  guidance  led, 
Since  Love  was  strangely  numb  or  dead, 
'T  was  fated  so. 

For  I  have  never  scorned  the  power 

By  all  confessed 

Of  womankind — the  human  flower 
Whose  petals  oped  in  Eden's  bower 
And  ever  since  that  natal  hour 

The  world  has  blessed. 

There   was  a  maid  of  seeming  trust 

And   Eve-like   form — 
Of  spirit  rare  and  swelling  bust — 
And  I  was  a  lad  of  motive  just; 
So  passion  rose  as  passion  must 

When  youth  is  warm. 


67 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


I  did  what  youth  has  always  done 

Since  Adam  fell; 
I  swore  she  was  the  only  one 
Beneath  the  circle  of  the  sun 
Whose  worth  defied  comparison 

And  words  to  tell. 

With  burning  cheek,  and  burning  speech, 

And  heart  aflame — 
All  hot  as  lava  from  the  breach 
Which  earthquakes  rend,  I  did  beseech 
One  tender  word,  and  thought  to  reach 

My  fervid  aim. 

Her  soul  was  stainless  as  the  wave 

That  washes  sin: 
Or  as  some  streamlet  fit  to  lave 
Diana's  hand — her  honor  brave 
As  this  fair,  honest  speech  she  gave 

Her  answer  in: 

"I  know  not  the  deceiver's  art, 

"Nor  will  I  try 

"To  play  so  false  and  base  a  part; 

68 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


"If  I  should  say,  with  feigned  start, 
"Your  answer  does  not  touch  my  heart — 
"My  lips  would  lie. 

"Within  my  breast  there  is  no  dearth 

"Of  fond  desire— 

"Which  even  now  is  waked  to  birth: 
"But  it  is  held  in  firmer  girth 
"Than  that  by  which  th'  incrusted  earth 

"Holds  hidden  fire. 

"A  shadow  dark,  immovable, 

"Is  fixed  within 

"My  bosom's  inmost,  secret  cell: 
"You  cannot  know,  nor  may  I  tell 
"Aught,  save  that  you  shall  know  this  well- 

"It  is  not  sin. 

"At  least  'twas  never  sin  of  mine; 

"But  yet  a  trace 
"As  fateful  as  the  curse  Divine, 
"Is — like  an  evil,  pois'nous  vine — 
Forever  running  through  the  line 
"Of  my  doomed  race. 

69 


" 


Of  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


"'Twere  crime  if  I  should  ever  link 

"Another's  life 

"To  mine — my  soul  would  shrink 
"As  from  the  pit's  eternal  brink! 
"Of  Love's  sweet  cup  I  ne'er  can  drink, 

"Nor  be  a  wife." 

Adown  the  pathway  through  the  wood 

She  hasted  on, 

A  thing  Divine  in  maidenhood! 
From  that  loved  spot  where  she  had  stood- 
A  desert  now — a  solitude — 

Forever    gone ! 

I  call  her  name  amid  those  trees — 

She  is  not  there — 

Vain  echo  rides  the  answ'ring  breeze: 
But,  mystery  of  mysteries — 
She  evermore  pursues  and  flees 

Me  everywhere. 


70 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


THE    MAGDALEN'S    THANKSGIVING    DAY. 


Thanksgiving  Day  had  come   and  gone  with  all 
its  festal  cheer, 
And  Love  had  knitted  up  again  the  ravel  of  a 

year; 
The  night  fell  soft  o'er  happy  homes — to  me  it  brought 

unrest — 

The  ghost  of  a  long-buried  grief  was  my  untimely  guest. 
An   air   of   comfort   filled   my   room — it   glowed   with 

warmth  and  light, 
But,  turning  from  its  open  door  I  went  forth  in  the 

night. 

My   wandering    steps    ere    long   had    reached    an    old 
deserted  pier, 

And,  as  I  stood  in  silence  wrapped,  a  woman  hurried 
near. 

Why  came  she  there?    My  heart  divined  the  truth  she 
dared  not  give — 

She  sought  to  end  a  shameless  life  she  could  no  longer 
live. 

I  felt  a  touch  of  pity  for  the  outcast  thus  forlorn — 

Bereft  of  Christian  sympathy  and  damned  by  Christian 

scorn; 

71 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


Quick  on  my  sight  a  vision  flashed — a  home-scene  far 
away, 

Where  anguished  hearts  had  grieved  afresh  for  one  not 
named  that  day: 

Ah!    mine   seemed  but  a  shallow  grief — these  hearts 

more  deeply  bled 
For  a  loved  one  lost  though  living  yet,  while  mine  was 

only  dead. 
If  Christ — the  Pure,  the  Perfect  One — could  brook  the 

sinner's  touch, 
Should  I — one  of  the  self-condemned — be  loth  to  do  as 

much? 
Impelled  by  Christian  chivalry  tow'rd  one  so  shunned 

and  banned, 
I  spurned  the  folly  of  preaching  then,  but  offered  a 

friendly  hand. 

0  God!  how  she  that  token  seized — with  glad,  exultant 

grip, 

Like  one  who  holds  the  life-line  fast  on  board  a  sinking 
ship; 

A    sudden   burst   of   moonlight   came   and   swept   the 
shadow  past — 

1  saw  a  face  beatified  with  hope-light  on  it  cast; 

Then  under  frailty's  ashes  quick  the  spark  repentant 
shone — 

72 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


The   Magdalen  was  sobbing  and  her  tears  fell  with 
my  own. 

What  need  to  tell  again  the  tale  the  world  has  learned 
so  well? 

How  innocence — though  warned  so  oft — by  too  much 

trusting  fell; 

A  lover's  vows — a  secret  flight — man's  perfidy — and  then 
The  cloud  of  shame — the  reckless  plunge — the  scoff  and 

sport  of  men!  — 
I  listened,  though  the  outward  ear  played  but  a  minor 

part, 
Her  piteous  wail  for  rescue  pierced  like  a  needle  through 

my  heart. 
"Oh!    is  there  not  on  this  broad  earth  one  fair  and 

friendly  spot, 
"Where  sheltered  by  sweet  purity,  the  past  may  be 

forgot? 
'Twere  worth  the  world  and  all  its  thrones  to  wear 

one  hour,  now, 
"The  jewel  of  honored  womanhood — ah!  show  me  where 

and  how ! " 

The  House  of  Rescue  swung  its  door  on  willing  hinges 

wide, 

73 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


And  she  who  fled  a  scorning  world  found  welcome 

warm  inside. 
At  midnight  in  my  silent  room— childless,  alone,  and 

gray— 
(For  chance  had  robbed  my  mateless  heart  in  life's 

romantic  day) 

I  sat  in  soothing  reverie,  and  ceased  to  question  why 
The  stricken  one  should  still  live  on,  or  why  the  blest 

should  die; 
My  murmuring  changed  to  music  now,  like  strains  of 

long  ago — 
My  grief  had  ebbed  and  vanished  in  another's  flood 

of  woe. 
The   flame   within   my  lamp   was  dead — dead   embers 

filled  the  grate, 

But  I  had  led  a  fallen  one  from  Ruin  to  Rescue's  gate, 
And  that  sweet  thought  so  filled  my  breast  I  felt  nor 

chill  nor  gloom — 
It   seemed    that    Christ   in    spirit   came    to   bless    my 

lonely  room. 


74 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


FORGIVENESS. 

ut  yesterday  I  did  a  grievous  wrong 
Unto  a  friend  who  loves  me  well; 
Last  night  I  sought  and  pondered,  late  and  long, 
How  I  my  penitence  should  tell. 


B 


This  morn  the  way  was  plain,  for  then  I  held 

The  rein  of  Duty  over  Pride; 
At  noon,  again,  my  stubborn  heart  rebelled, 

And  scorned  to  be  so  crucified. 

This  eve  we  met  in  twilight's  tender  glow: 
His  loving  face — bent  tow'rd  the  west — 

The  heav'ly  radiance  reflected  so 

All  shadow  fled  and  I  confessed. 

How  sweet  his  pardon  was!     His  eyes,  suffused, 
Looked  all  the  while  upon  the  ground 

As  if  he  were  the  culprit — I  th*  abused — 
Ah !  mine  was  much  the  deeper  wound. 

Nor  did  he  leave  me  with  an  aching  sense 

Of  guiltiness — his  love  sufficed 
To  comfort  me,  and  show  my  recompense 

Complete ;  't  was  like  the  love  of  Christ. 

75 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


THE  MOTE  AND  THE  BEAM. 
A  Fragment. 

Ah,  me!  how  swiftly  we  condemn 
Our  fellows  all — the  best  of  them — 
In  bigotry  with  flippant  phrase, 
Abusing  oft  their  better  ways; 
As  scripture  hath  it — prone  to  note 
The  presence  of  our  brother's  mote, 
Ignoring  that  so  snugly  hid 
Beneath  our  own  unwinking  lid. 
His  fancy  sees  some  doubtful  good, 
And,  wavering  'twixt  should  not  and  should 
Till  weakened  will  no  more  deters, 
His  faltering  judgment  yields  and  errs. 
But  we — more  righteous,  you  and  I — 
In  virtuous  anger  may  decry 
His  act  for  which  we  have  no  mind, 
Being  to  its  allurement  blind, 
And  yet  accept  without  a  qualm, 
With  forward  step  and  outstretched  palm, 
Some  sweetened  vice  which  he'd  resist 
With  firm-set  foot  and  lifted  fist.— 
Now  there's  my  neighbor  o'er  the  way: 

76 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


In  confidence  I'm  free  to  say 
That  for  a  bigot,  narrow,  mean, 
His  like  was  scarcely  ever  seen. 
His  faith  and  he  are  joined  as  well 
As  periwinkle  to  his  shell; 
To  see  him  wriggle    in  and  out 
And  note  the  rare  and  wondrous  fit, 
The  world  could  never  have  a  doubt 
'T  was  made  for  him  and  he  for  it. — 
His  twin  for  meanness  lives  next  door, 
A  miser  rich  and  wanting  more; 
I  oft  had  clearly  marked  the  curse 
Imprinted  on  his  face  of  greed, 
And  knew  his  long  and  lengthy  purse 
Would  never  ope  to  others'  need. — 
A  scholar  fond  of  books  and  ease 
Secluded  lives  beyond  those  trees, 
From  men  apart.    'Tis  often  said 
He  robs  his  heart  to  enrich  his  head, 
And  though  reputed  very  wise, 
He  lacks  all  human  sympathies. — 
That  cottage  yonder  where  the  vine 
Has  clambered  to  the  very  eaves 
And  hid  the  architect's  design 

77 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


Behind  its  fresh  and  looming  leaves, 

Is  where  a  blatant  preacher  dwells 

And  cons  all  week  the  things  he  tells 

On  Sunday  to  the  flock,  who  toil 

To  fill  his  cruse  with  unearned  oil. — 

I'd  shame  to  tell  you  all  I  could 

Of  each  house  in  this  neighborhood. 

But  there  is  one  that  heretofore 

We  Ve  all  agreed  is  its  eyesore: 

You  see  below  there  on  my  side 

Where  the  gate  swings  latchless  loose  and  wide 

And  the  boards  are  broke  from  the  reeling  fence, 

Which  fails  to  hide  the  brambles  dense 

In  the  choking  yard?    You  note  how  brown 

The  house — as  if  it  wore  a  frown; 

It  seems  to  shrink  from  ground  to  roof, 

As  if  from  its  neighbors  it  held  aloof. 

Sometimes  you  may  see  at  the  door  a  face 

Well  framed  in  the  woe  of  the  desolate  place: 

Tis  the  once  proud  wife  whose  pride  is  crushed 

By  that  for  which  she  has  often  blushed 

Till  her  cheek  was  bleached  with  the  bitter  tears 

That  washed  it  white  in  the  hopeless  years. 

That  is  the  deepest,  darkest  blot 

78 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


For  there  lives  an  outcast,  hopeless  sot. 
****** 

****** 

His  bosom  heaved  'neath  his  rusty  coat 

And  he  swallowed  hard  in  his  swelling  throat; 

Tho*  he  grieved  not  in  words  as  others  grieve, 

A  tear-drop  fell  on  his  tattered  sleeve. 
****** 

****** 
****** 


79 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


THE  FINAL  GOSPEL. 


What  matter  if  we  search  for  God 
In  ways  no  other  foot  hath  trod? 
What  though  we   deem   He  hears  our  call, 
Or  doubt  if  he  hath  heard  at  all? 
It  is  the  striving  of  the  soul 
That  is,  itself,  the  very  goal; 
Who  yearns  for  Him,  unceasingly, 
Shall  find — hath  found — for  that  is  He. 
Whoever  tries  to  thread  the  maze 
Of  churchly  doctrines,  or  essays 
To  prove  one  absolutely  true 
To  men  of  every  clime  and  hue — 
Resolved  to  cast  all  others  out — 
Must  learn  to  honor  honest  doubt; 
For,  though  we  sit  in  neighboring  pews, 
We  hold  diverse  and  warring  views — 
Scarce  two  agreeing,  dot  for  dot, 
What  is  God's  meaning,  or  is  not. 
One   sees  a  God  whose  vengeance  dire 
Foredooms  the  babe  to  endless  fire; 
One  sees  a  gracious,  pard'ning  smile 

80 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


For  all  mankind,  despite  its  guile; 
One   holds  the  hampered  human  will 
Accountable  for  every  ill; 
And  One  e'en  doubts  if  Chance  or  God 
Created  him  a  soul,  or  clod.  — 
But  best  of  all  is  he  whose  deeds 
Are  just  and  right  by  all  the  creeds — 
Whom  Christian,  Moslem,  Pagan,  all 
Approve,  whate'er  his  name  they  call; 
Who  grants  that  creeds,  howe'er  received, 
Are  but  beliefs,  howe'er  believed; 
Who  hath  no  quarrel  with  his  friend 
About  his  faith  or  final  end, 
Nor  seeks  to  pry  conviction  loose 
Upon  the  fulcrum  of  abuse; 
Who  neither  boasts  himself  a  saint, 
Nor  damns  the  world  with  loud  complaint; 
Who  meets  contention,  when  he  must, 
With  valiant  front  and  manly  thrust, 
But  trains  his  hand  and  heart  and  mind 
In  love's  sweet  art  of  being  kind; 
Whose  footsteps  part  not  from  his  speech; 
Who  lives  what  others  only  preach — 
Content  to  leave  the  rest  to  Him 

81 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


Who  purposely  hath  made  it  dim. 

He  frets  not  that  he  cannot  show 

Those  things  which  none  can  surely  know; 

But  strives  to  do  as  best  he  can, 

His  duty  to  his  fellow-man — 

And  waits  not  for  some  future  sphere, 

But  tries  to  make  a  Heaven  here. 


82 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


MY  SONG  THAT  IS  NEVER  SUNG. 


There  comes  to  my  spirit's  ear,  sometimes, 
A  deep,  unworded  lay, 
Whose  cadenced  flow  of  unwrit  rhymes 

Keeps  ringing  the  live-long  day. 
I  awake  at  morn — it  rises  then, 

But  eludes  my  faltering  tongue; 
It  swells  and  dies  unheard  by  men — 
My  song  that  is  never  sung. 

I  wend  my  way  through  the  crowded  street — 

I  trudge  through  lonely  lanes — 
I  stand  where  genial  spirits  meet, 

Or  where  dumb  sorrow  reigns; 
It  ripples  along  like  a  brook  at  play — 

It  grieves  like  the  ocean's  moan — 
My  lips  are  mute,  but  I  hear  alway 

A  tale  in  the  undertone. 

While  musing  thus  I  meet  my  friend 

And  pass  unseeing  by, 
Then  rouse  me  later  and,  shaming,  send 

A  regret  for  my  careless  eye; 

83 


LIFE'S    FLEETING    SHOW. 


But  he  hath  a  heart  that  exults  in  strife — 

In  marts  or  arms  he  is  king; 
He  pities  the  soul  in  the  warfare  of  life 

That  halts  to  listen  or  sing. 

Ah!  surely,  each  thought  that  our  bosoms  bear 

Sometime  we  shall  unfold; 
There's  an  ear  that  waits  in  the  great  Somewhere 

To  hear  my  story  told. 
Will  the  pent-up  strains  that  seem  accurst 

By  lifelong  silence  here, 
From  lips  unlocked  by  angels  burst 

On  Heaven's  atmosphere? 


84 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN. 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN. 


THE  BARN. 

(To  My  Young  Nephew,  R.  V.  W., 
2400  Ridge  Road,  Berkeley.) 

It  isn't  so  bad  to  reside  in  a  stable, 
When  you  think  of  the  Centaurs  of  ancient  Greek 
fable, 
Who   held  high   their  heads,  on   those   far  classic 

shores, 
Although    they    wore    hoofs,    and    roamed    round    on 

"all-fours." 
Should    you    fear    that    distinction    would    shun    such 

a  home, 

Remember,  a  horse  was  once  Consul  at  Rome; 
Nor  can  you  forget — what  truth  could  be  stranger? — 
The  Light  of  the  World  first  shone  from  a  manger. 

Of  course  you'll  be  careful  in  guarding  your  manners, 
And  see  that  your  harness  don't  smell  of  the  tanners; 
If  at  table  you  find  in  your  oatmeal  some  chaff, 
And  it  tickles — be  gentle — avoid  a  horse-laugh. 
There's  danger  in  straps  for  yearlings  that  flare  up 
And    forget    that    good    rearing    don't    mean    simply 


"rear  up." 


87 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN. 


Your  father  won't  kick,  if,  in  French,  you  say  "Pere," 
But  you'd  better  use    English    in    addressing  your — 
mother. 

On  the  race-course  (that's  school)  just  get  up  and  strive 
To  "get  there" — or  (a  word  that  sounds  better) — arrive: 
If  you're  classed  with  slow-trotters,  of  two-forty  gait, 
And  find  you  can  beat  'em — just  go!  and  don't  wait. 
Columbus  showed  how  he  could  stand  up  an  egg 
On  its  one  little  end,  with  no  foot  and  no  leg. 
Who  knows  but  you'll  learn    to    combine,  by  some 

plan, 
The  strength  of  a  horse  with  the  mind  of  a  man? 


88 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN. 


UPON  RECEIVING  A  BIRTHDAY  BAG  FROM  A 

CHARITY. 

When  this  all-conquering  scourge  of  sneeze 
Has  bowed  one's  head  and  bent  his  knees 
Until  he  knows  he  must  have  shrunk 
In  longitude  as  well  as  spunk — 
'T  would  be  unfair  at  such  a  time 
To  save,  perhaps,  a  paltry  dime 
By  taking  measure  of  himself 
And  gauging  thus  his  gift  of  pelf. 
One  might — in  such  a  state  of  sag — 
Feel  mean  enough  to  keep  the  bag. 
In  normal  days  my  honest  height 
Was  five  feet  seven — stretched  up  tight; 
The  pleasure  promised  by  your  card 
(From  which  I  fear  myself  debarred) 
Should  put  one  on  tip-toe,  I  know; 
And — willing  to  be  measured  so— 
I  stretch  myself  and  do  not  count, 
But  send  a  coin  for  due  amount 

Monrovia,  Calif., 
Jan.  2,  1901. 

89 


RANDOM  LINES. 


RANDOM    LINES. 


\ 

While  Talent  through  the  gateway  crawls, 
Swift  Genius  soars  above  the  walls — 
So  man  with  limping  Logic  halts 
While  woman's  mind,  more  nimble,  vaults 
To  ripe  conclusions  just  and  fair 
And  ends  contention  with  "So,  there ! " 


93 


RANDOM    LINES. 


The  fire  of  passion  fiercely  glows 
Just  while  the  faithful  bellows  blows, 
But  turns  to  ashes  cold  and  grey 
Before  the  ending  of  the  day — 
Or,  if  neglected,  e'en  more  soon: 
'T  is  dead  before  the  heat  of  noon. 


94 


RANDOM    LINES. 


The  virtues  of  a  friend  he  saw 
So  large  they  well-nigh  broke  the  law; 
His  vices,  though  of  every  kind, 
He  would  not  see — there  he  was  blind. 


95 


RANDOM    LINES. 


Those  well-worn  words  so  wondrous  dear 
When  spoken  to  the  waiting  ear, — 
Though  by  a  seraph  sung  or  read, 
Are  sweeter  by  the  loved  one  said. 


RANDOM    LINES. 


What  surgeon  with  his  searching  knife 
Has  found  the  principle  of  life? 
What  surpliced  surgeon  of  the  soul 
Can  probe  the  source  of  life's  control 
And  find  where  impulse  takes  its  rise 
And  why  'tis  good  or  otherwise? 


97 


RANDOM    LINES. 


But  let  the  spark  of  Genius  flash — 
And  whipt  o'er  wire  by  lightning's  lash 
It  thrills  the  world  on  every  side, 
Tho'  seas  and  continents  divide; 
A  mile  's  an  inch,  an  hour  's  an  age, 
At  eve  we  scorn  the  morning  page. 


98 


RANDOM    LINES. 


Oh  what  a  laggard  foot  hath  Time 
When  Youth  awaits  him!    In  our  prime 
He  soon  outruns  our  fleeting  powers, 
With  whip  in  hand  to  urge  the  hours; 
When  we  are  old  he  flies  so  fast 
That  ere  we  reckon  he  has  passed — 
His  streaming  robe  we  fain  would  clutch, 
But  hobble  on  with  cane  and  crutch. 


99 


RANDOM    LINES. 


When  we  are  dead,  what  care  we  then 
For  all  the  sighs  and  songs  of  men? 
The  part  we  save  for  future  days 
Is  lost  to  present  and  always. 
Give  me  this  year,  this  day,  this  hour — 
The  fruit  may  fail,  I'll  take  the  flower. 
Bitter  fortune  teaches  me 
I  may  outrun  slow  destiny 
And  slip  beyond  the  closing  gates, 
While  he  's  shut  out  who  halts  and  waits. 


100 


RANDOM    LINES. 


And  when  I  lie  upon  my  bier, 
If  Poverty  will  drop  a  tear 
In  silent  homage  to  my  worth, 
I  ask  no  better  fame  of  earth. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


101 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 

BERKELEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


FEB  14 


--. '27 


YB    I446G 


